THE LOOT OF THE CITIES

Being the Adventures of a
Millionaire in Search of Joy (1905)

by

ARNOLD BENNETT (1867-1931)

Originally published in The Windsor magazine (1905-nov)

CHAPTER VI.

"Lo! 'Twas a Gala Night!"

PARIS. And not merely Paris, but Paris
en fête, Paris decorated, Paris idle, Paris
determined to enjoy itself, and succeeding brilliantly. Venetian
masts of red and gold lined the gay pavements of the grands
boulevarde and the Avenue de l'Opéra; and suspended
from these in every direction, transverse and lateral, hung
garlands of flowers whose petals were of coloured paper, and
whose hearts were electric globes that in the evening would burst
into flame. The effect of the city's toilette reached the
extreme of opulence, for no expense had been spared. Paris was
welcoming monarchs, and had spent two million francs in obedience
to the maxim that what is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

The Grand Hotel, with its eight hundred rooms
full of English and Americans, at the upper end of the Avenue de
l'Opéra, looked down at the Grand Hotel du Louvre, with
its four hundred rooms full of English and Americans, at the
lower end of the Avenue de l'Opéra. These two
establishments had the best views in the whole city; and perhaps
the finest view of all was that obtainable from a certain second
floor window of the Grand Hotel, precisely at the corner of the
Boulevard des Capucines and the Rue Auber. From this window one
could see the boulevards in both directions, the Opéra,
the Place de l'Opéra, the Avenue de l'Opéra, the
Rue du Quatre Septembre, and the multitudinous life of the vivid
thoroughfares  the glittering cafés, the
dazzling shops, the painted kiosks, the lumbering omnibuses, the
gliding trams, the hooting automobiles, the swift and careless
cabs, the private carriages, the suicidal bicycles, the newsmen,
the toysellers, the touts, the beggars, and all the holiday
crowd, sombre men and radiant women, chattering, laughing,
bustling, staring, drinking, under the innumerable tricolours and
garlands of paper flowers.

That particular view was a millionaire's view,
and it happened to be the temporary property of Cecil Thorold,
who was enjoying it and the afternoon sun at the open window,
with three companions. Eve Fincastle looked at it with the
analytic eye of the journalist, while Kitty Sartorius, as was
quite proper for an actress, deemed it a sort of frame for
herself, as she leaned over the balcony like a Juliet on
the stage. The third guest in Cecil's sitting-room was Lionel
Belmont, the Napoleonic Anglo-American theatrical manager, in
whose crown Kitty herself was the chief star. Mr. Belmont, a
big, burly, good-humoured, shrewd man of something over forty,
said he had come to Paris on business. But for two days the
business had been solely to look after Kitty Sartorius and
minister to her caprices. At the present moment his share of the
view consisted mainly of Kitty; in the same way Cecil's share of
the view consisted mainly of Eve Fincastle; but this at least was
right and decorous, for the betrothal of the millionaire and the
journalist had been definitely announced. Otherwise Eve would
have been back at work in Fleet Street a week ago.

"The gala performance is to-night, isn't it?"
said Eve, gazing at the vast and superbly ornamented Opera House.

"Yes," said Cecil.

"What a pity we can't be there! I should so have
liked to see the young Queen in evening dress. And they say the
interior decorations "

"Nothing simpler," said Cecil. "If you want to
go, dear, let us go."

Kitty Sartorius looked round quickly. "Mr.
Belmont has tried to get seats, and can't. Haven't you, Bel?
You know the whole audience is invited. The invitations are
issued by the Minister of Fine Arts."

"Still, in Paris, anything can be got by paying
for it," Cecil insisted.

"My dear young friend," said Lionel Belmont, "I
guess if seats were to be had, I should have struck one or two
yesterday. I put no limit on the price, and I reckon I ought to
know what theatre prices run to. Over at the Metropolitan in New
York I've seen a box change hands at two thousand dollars, for
one night."

"Seen the Herald to-day?" Belmont
questioned. "No? Well, listen. This will interest you." He
drew a paper from his pocket and read: "Seats for the
Opéra Gala. The traffic in seats for the gala performance
at the Opéra during the last Royal Visit to Paris aroused
considerable comment and not a little dissatisfaction. Nothing,
however, was done, and the traffic in seats for to-night's
spectacle, at which the President and their Imperial Majesties
will be present, has, it is said, amounted to a scandal. Of
course, the offer so suddenly made, five days ago, by Madame
Félise and Mademoiselle Malva, the two greatest living
dramatic sopranos, to take part in the performance, immediately
and enormously intensified interest in the affair, for never yet
have these two supreme artists appeared in the same theatre on
the same night. No theatre could afford the luxury. Our readers
may remember that in our columns and in the columns of the
Figaro there appeared four days ago an advertisement
to the following effect: 'A box, also two orchestra
stalls, for the Opéra Gala, to be disposed of, owing to
illness. Apply, 155, Rue de la Paix.' We sent four
several reporters to answer that advertisement. The first was
offered a stage-box for seven thousand five hundred francs, and
two orchestra stalls in the second row for twelve hundred and
fifty francs. The second was offered a box opposite the stage on
the second tier, and two stalls in the seventh row. The third
had the chance of four stalls in the back row and a small box
just behind them; the fourth was offered something else. The
thing was obviously, therefore, a regular agency. Everybody is
asking: 'How were these seats obtained? From the Ministry of
Fine Arts, or from the invités?' Echo answers
'How?' The authorities, however, are stated to have interfered
at last, and to have put an end to this buying and selling of
what should be an honourable distinction."

"Bravo!" said Cecil.

"And that's so!" Belmont remarked, dropping the
paper. "I went to 155, Rue de la Paix myself yesterday, and was
told that nothing whatever was to be had, not at any price."

"Perhaps you didn't offer enough," said Cecil.

"Moreover, I notice the advertisement does not
appear to-day. I guess the authorities have crumpled it up."

"Still " Cecil went on monotonously.

"Look here," said Belmont, grim and a little
nettled. "Just to cut it short, I'll bet you a
two-hundred-dollar dinner at Paillard's that you can't get seats
for to-night  not even two, let alone four."

II.

"Lecky," Cecil said to his valet, who had entered
the room, "I want you to go to No. 155, Rue de la Paix, and find
out on which floor they are disposing of seats for the
Opéra
to-night. When you have found out, I want you to get me four
seats  preferably a box. Understand?"

The servant stared at his master, squinting
violently for a few seconds. Then he replied suddenly, as though
light had just dawned on him. "Exactly, sir. You intend to be
present at the gala performance?"

"You have successfully grasped my intention,"
said Cecil. "Present my card." He scribbled a word or two on a
card and gave it to the man.

"And the price, sir?"

"You still have that blank cheque on the
Crédit Lyonnais that I gave you yesterday morning. Use
that."

"Yes, sir. Then there is the question of my
French, sir, my feeble French  a delicate plant."

"My friend," Belmont put in. "I will accompany
you as interpreter. I should like to see this thing through."

Lecky bowed and gave up squinting.

In three minutes (for they had only to go round
the corner), Lionel Belmont and Lecky were in a room on the
fourth floor of 155, Rue de la Paix. It had the appearance of an
ordinary drawing-room, save that it contained an office table; at
this table sat a young man, French.

"You wish, messieurs?" said the young man.

"Have the goodness to interpret for me," said
Lecky to the Napoleon of Anglo-Saxon theatres. "Mr. Cecil
Thorold, of the Devonshire Mansion, London, the Grand Hotel,
Paris; the Hôtel Continental, Rome, and the Ghezireh Palace
Hotel, Cairo, presents his compliments, and wishes a box for the
gala performance at the Opéra to-night."

Belmont translated, while Lecky handed the card.

"Owing to the unfortunate indisposition of a
Minister and his wife," replied the young man gravely, having
perused the card, "it happens that I have a stage-box on the
second tier."

"You told me yesterday " Belmont
began.

"I will take it," said Lecky in a sort of French,
interrupting his interpreter. "The price? And a pen."

"The price is twenty-five thousand francs."

"Gemini!" Belmont exclaimed in American. "This
is Paris, and no mistake!"

"Yes," said Lecky, as he filled up the blank
cheque, "Paris still succeeds in being Paris. I have noticed it
before, Mr. Belmont, if you will pardon the liberty."

The young man opened a drawer and handed to Lecky
a magnificent gilt card, signed by the Minister of Fine Arts,
which Lecky hid within his breast.

"That signature of the Minister is genuine, eh?"
Belmont asked the young man.

"I answer for it," said the young man, smiling
imperturbably.

"The deuce you do!" Belmont murmured.

So the four friends dined at Paillard's at the
rate of about a dollar and a-half a mouthful, and the mystified
Belmont, who was not in the habit of being mystified, and so felt
it, had the ecstasy of paying the bill.

III.

It was nine o'clock when they entered the
magnificent precincts of the Opera House. Like everybody else,
they went very early  the performance was not to commence
until nine-thirty  in order to see and be seen to the
fullest possible extent. A week had elapsed since the two girls
had arrived from Algiers in Paris, under the escort of Cecil
Thorold, and in that time they had not been idle. Kitty
Sartorius had spent tolerable sums at the best modistes,
in the Rue de la Paix and the establishments in the Rue de la
Chausée d'Antin, while Eve had bought one frock (a dream,
needless to say), and had also been nearly covered with jewellery
by her betrothed. That afternoon, between the bet and the
dinner, Cecil had made more than one mysterious disappearance.
He finally came back with a diamond tiara for his dear
journalist. "You ridiculous thing!" exclaimed the dear
journalist, kissing him. It thus occurred that Eve, usually so
severe of aspect, had more jewels than she could wear, while
Kitty, accustomed to display, had practically nothing but her
famous bracelet. Eve insisted on pooling the lot, and dividing
equally, for the gala.

Consequently, the party presented a very pretty
appearance as it ascended the celebrated grand staircase of the
Opéra, wreathed to-night in flowers. Lionel Belmont, with
Kitty on his arm, was in high spirits, uplifted, joyous; but
Cecil himself seemed to be a little nervous, and this nervousness
communicated itself to Eve Fincastle  or perhaps Eve was
rather overpowered by her tiara. At the head of the staircase
was a notice requesting everyone to be seated at
nine-twenty-five, previous to the arrival of the President and
the Imperial guests of the Republic.

The row of officials at the controle took
the expensive gilt card from Cecil, examined it, returned it, and
bowed low with an intimation that he should turn to the right and
climb two floors; and the party proceeded further into the
interior of the great building. The immense corridors and
foyers and stairs were crowded with a collection of the
best-known people and the best-dressed people and the most
wealthy people in Paris. It was a gathering of all the renowns.
The garish, gorgeous Opéra seemed to be changed that night
into something new and strange. Even those shabby old harridans,
the box-openers, the ouvreuses, wore bows of red, white
and blue, and smiled effusively in expectation of tips
inconceivably large.

"Tiens!" exclaimed the box-opener who had
taken charge of Cecil's party, as she unlocked the door of the
box.

And well might she exclaim, for the box (No. 74
 no possible error) was already occupied by a lady and two
gentlemen, who were talking rather loudly in French! Cecil
undoubtedly turned pale, while Lionel Belmont laughed within his
moustache.

"These people have made a mistake," Cecil was
saying to the ouvreuse, when a male official in evening
dress approached him with an air of importance.

"Pardon, monsieur. You are Monsieur Cecil
Thorold?"

"I am," said Cecil.

"Will you kindly follow me? Monsieur the
Directeur wishes to see you."

"You are expected, evidently," said Lionel
Belmont. The girls kept apart, as girls should in these crises
between men.

"I have a ticket for this box," Cecil remarked to
the official. "And I wish first to take possession of it."

"It is precisely that point which Monsieur the
Directeur wishes to discuss with Monsieur," rejoined the
official, ineffably suave. He turned with a wonderful bow to the
girls, and added with that politeness of which the French alone
have the secret: "Perhaps, in the meantime, these ladies would
like to see the view of the Avenue de l'Opéra from the
balcony? The illuminations have begun, and the effect is
certainly charming."

Cecil bit his lip.

"Yes," he said. "Belmont, take them."

So, while Lionel Belmont escorted the girls to
the balcony, there to discuss the startling situation and to
watch the Imperial party drive up the resplendent, fairy-like,
and unique avenue, Cecil followed the official.

He was guided along various passages and round
unnumbered corners to the rear part of the colossal building.
There, in a sumptuous bureau, the official introduced him to a
still higher official, the Directeur, who had a decoration and a
long, white moustache.

"Monsieur," said this latter, "I am desolated to
have to inform you that the Minister of Fine Arts has withdrawn
his original invitation for Box No. 74 to-night."

"I have received no intimation of the
withdrawal," Cecil replied.

"No. Because the original invitation was not
issued to you," said the Directeur, excited and nervous. "The
Minister of Fine Arts instructs me to inform you that his
invitation to meet the President and their Imperial Majesties
cannot be bought and sold."

"But is it not notorious that many such
invitations have been bought and sold?"

"It is, unfortunately, too notorious."

Here the Directeur looked at his watch and rang a
bell impatiently.

"Then why am I singled out?"

The Directeur gazed blandly at Cecil. "The
reason, perhaps, is best known to yourself," said he, and he rang
the bell again.

"I appear to incommode you," Cecil remarked.
"Permit me to retire."

"Not at all, I assure you," said the Directeur.
"On the contrary. I am a little agitated on account of the
non-arrival of Mademoiselle Malva."

A minor functionary entered.

"She has come?"

"No, Monsieur the Directeur."

"And it is nine-fifteen. Sapristi!"

The functionary departed.

"The invitation to Box No. 74," proceeded the
Directeur, commanding himself, "was sold for two thousand francs.
Allow me to hand you notes for the amount, dear monsieur."

"But I paid twenty-five thousand," said Cecil,
smiling.

"It is conceivable. But the Minister can only
concern himself with the original figure. You refuse the notes?"

"By no means," said Cecil, accepting them. "But
I have brought here to-night three guests, including two ladies.
Imagine my position."

"I imagine it," the Directeur responded. "But
you will not deny that the Minister has always the right to
cancel an invitation. Seats ought to be sold subject to the
contingency of that right being exercised."

At that moment still another official plunged
into the room.

"She is not here yet!" he sighed, as if in
extremity.

"It is unfortunate," Cecil sympathetically put
in.

"It is more than unfortunate, dear monsieur,"
said the Directeur, gesticulating. "It is unthinkable. The
performance must begin at nine-thirty, and it
must begin with the garden scene from 'Faust,' in which
Mademoiselle Malva takes Marguerite."

"Why not change the order?" Cecil suggested.

"Impossible. There are only two other items.
The first act of 'Lohengrin,' with Madame Félise, and the
ballet 'Sylvia.' We cannot commence with the ballet. No one ever
heard of such a thing. And do you suppose that Félise
will sing before Malva? Not for millions. Not for a throne.
The etiquette of sopranos is stricter than that of Courts.
Besides, to-night we cannot have a German opera preceding a
French one."

"Then the President and their Majesties will have
to wait a little, till Malva arrives," Cecil said.

"Their Majesties wait! Impossible!"

"Impossible!" echoed the other official, aghast.

Two more officials entered. And the atmosphere
of alarm, of being scotched, of being up a tree of incredible
height, the atmosphere which at that moment permeated the whole
of the vast region behind the scenes of the Paris Opéra,
seemed to rush with them into the bureau of the Directeur and to
concentrate itself there.

"Nine-twenty! And she couldn't dress in less
than fifteen minutes."

"You have sent to the Hotel du Louvre?" the
Directeur questioned despairingly.

"Yes, Monsieur the Directeur. She left there two
hours ago."

Cecil coughed.

"I could have told you as much," he remarked,
very distinctly

"What!" cried the Directeur. "You know
Mademoiselle Malva?"

"She is among my intimate friends," said Cecil
smoothly.

"Perhaps you know where she is?"

"I have a most accurate idea," said Cecil.

"Where?"

"I will tell you when I am seated in my box with
my friends," Cecil answered.

"Dear monsieur," panted the Directeur, "tell us
at once! I give you my word of honour that you shall have your
box."

Cecil bowed.

"Certainly," he said. "I may remark that I had
gathered information which led me to anticipate this difficulty
with the Minister of Fine Arts "

"But Malva, Malva  where is she?"

"Be at ease. It is only nine-twenty-three, and
Mademoiselle Malva is less than three minutes away, and ready
dressed. I was observing that I had gathered information which
led me to anticipate this difficulty with the Minister of Fine
Arts, and accordingly I took measures to protect myself. There
is no such thing as absolute arbitrary power, dear Directeur,
even in a Republic, and I have proved it. Mademoiselle Malva is
in room No. 429 at the Grand Hotel, across the road. . . . Stay,
she will not come without this note."

He handed out a small, folded letter from his
waistcoat pocket.

Then he added: "Adieu, Monsieur the Directeur.
You have just time to reach the State entrance in order to
welcome the Presidential and Imperial party."

At nine-thirty, Cecil and his friends were
ushered by a trinity of subservient officials into their box,
which had been mysteriously emptied of its previous occupants.
And at the same moment the monarchs, with monarchical
punctuality, accompanied by the President, entered the
Presidential box in the middle of the grand tier of the superb
auditorium. The distinguished and dazzling audience rose to its
feet, and the band played the National Anthem.

"You fixed it up then?" Belmont whispered under
cover of the National Anthem. He was beaten, after all.

"Oh, yes!" said Cecil lightly. "A trivial
misconception, nothing more. And I have made a little out of it,
too."

"Indeed! Much?"

"No, not much! Two thousand francs. But you
must remember that I have been less than half an hour in making
them."

The curtain rose on the garden scene from
"Faust."

IV.

"My dear," said Eve.

When a woman has been definitely linked with a
man, either by betrothal or by marriage, there are moments,
especially at the commencement, when she assumes an air and a
tone of absolute exclusive possession of him. It is a wonderful
trick, which no male can successfully imitate, try how he will.
One of these moments had arrived in the history of Eve Fincastle
and her millionaire lover. They sat in a large, deserted public
room, all gold, of the Grand Hotel. It was midnight less a
quarter, and they had just returned, somewhat excited and
flushed, from the glories of the gala performances. During the
latter part of the evening, Eve had been absent from Cecil's box
for nearly half an hour.

Kitty Sartorius and Lionel Belmont were
conversing in an adjoining salon.

"Yes," said Cecil.

"Are you quite, quite sure that you love me?"

Only one answer is possible to such a question.
Cecil gave it.

"That is all very well," Eve pursued with equal
gravity and charm. "But it was really tremendously sudden,
wasn't it? I can't think what you see in me, dearest."

"My dear Eve," Cecil observed, holding her hand,
"the best things, the most enduring things, very often occur
suddenly."

"Say you love me," she persisted.

So he said it, this time. Then her gravity
deepened, though she smiled.

"You've given up all those  those schemes
and things of yours, haven't you?" she questioned.

"Absolutely," he replied.

"My dear, I'm so glad. I never could understand
why "

"Listen," he said. "What was I to do? I was
rich. I was bored. I had no great attainments. I was interested
in life and in the arts, but not desperately, not vitally. You
may, perhaps, say I should have taken up philanthropy. Well, I'm
not built that way. I can't help it, but I'm not a born
philanthropist, and the philanthropist without a gift for
philanthropy usually does vastly more harm than good. I might
have gone into business. Well, I should only have doubled my
millions, while boring myself all the time. Yet the instinct
which I inherited from my father, the great American instinct to
be a little cleverer and smarter than someone else, drove me to
action. It was part of my character, and one can't get away from
one's character. So finally I took to these rather original
'schemes,' as you call them. They had the advantage of being
exciting and sometimes dangerous, and though they were often
profitable, they were not too profitable. In short, they amused
me and gave me joy. They also gave me you."

Eve smiled again, but without committing herself.

"But you have abandoned them now completely?" she
said.

"Oh, yes," he answered.

"Then what about this Opéra affair
to-night?" She sprang the question on him sharply. She did her
best to look severe, but the endeavour ended with a laugh.

"I meant to tell you," he said. "But how 
how did you know? How did you guess?"

"You forget that I am still a journalist," she
replied, "and still on the staff of my paper. I wished to
interview Malva to-night for the Journal, and I did
so. It was she who let out things. She thought I knew all about
it; and when she saw that I didn't she stopped and advised me
mysteriously to consult you for details."

"It was the scandal at the gala performance last
autumn that gave me an action for making a corner in seats at the
very next gala performance that should ever occur at the Paris
Opéra," Cecil began his confession. "I knew that seats
could be got direct from more or less minor officials at the
Ministry of Fine Arts, and also that a large proportion of the
people invited to these performances were prepared to sell their
seats. You can't imagine how venal certain circles are in Paris.
It just happened that the details and date of to-night's
performance were announced on the day we arrived here. I could
not resist the chance. Now you comprehend sundry strange absences
of mine during the week. I went to a reporter on the Echo
de Paris whom I knew, and who knows everybody. And we got
out a list of the people likely to be invited and likely to be
willing to sell their seats. We also opened negotiations at the
Ministry."

"How on earth do these ideas occur to you?" asked
Eve.

"How can I tell?" Cecil answered. "It is because
they occur to me that I am I  you see. Well, in
twenty-four hours my reporter and two of his friends had
interviewed half the interviewable people in Paris, and the
Minister of Fine Arts had sent out his invitations, and I had
obtained the refusal of over three hundred seats, at a total cost
of about seventy-five thousand francs. Then I saw that my friend
the incomparable Malva was staying at the Ritz, and the keystone
idea of the entire affair presented itself to me. I got her to
offer to sing. Of course, her rival Félise could not be
behind her in a patriotic desire to cement the friendliness of
two great nations. The gala performance blossomed into a
terrific boom. We took a kind of office in the Rue de la Paix.
We advertised very discreetly. Every evening, after bidding you
'Good-night,' I saw my reporter and Lecky, and arranged the
development of the campaign. In three days we had sold all our
seats, except one box, which I kept, for something like two
hundred thousand francs."

"Then this afternoon you merely bought the box
from yourself?"

"Exactly, my love. I had meant the surprise of
getting a box to come a little later than it did  say at
dinner; but you and Belmont, between you, forced it on."

"And that is all?"

"Not quite. The minions of the Minister of Fine
Arts were extremely cross. And they meant to revenge themselves
on me by depriving me of my box at the last moment. However, I
got wind of that, and by the simplest possible arrangement with
Malva I protected myself. The scheme  my last bachelor
fling, Eve  has been a great success, and the official
world of Paris has been taught a lesson which may lead to
excellent results."

"And you have cleared a hundred and twenty-five
thousand francs?"

"By no means. The profits of these undertakings
are the least part of them. The expenses are heavy. I reckon
the expenses will be nearly forty thousand francs. Then I must
give Malva a necklace, and that necklace must cost twenty-five
thousand francs."

"That leaves sixty thousand clear?" said Eve.

"Say sixty-two thousand."

"Why?"

"I was forgetting an extra two thousand made this
evening."

"And your other 'schemes'?" Eve continued her
cross-examination. "How much have they yielded?"

"The Devonshire House scheme was a dead loss. My
dear, why did you lead me to destroy that fifty thousand pounds?
Waste not, want not. There may come a day when we shall need
that fifty thousand pounds; and then "

"My dear Cecil," the girl said, "call it forty
thousand  a million francs  and give me a cheque. Do
you mind?"

"I shall be charmed, my darling."

"And when we get to London," Eve finished, "I
will hand it over to the hospitals anonymously."

He paused, gazed at her, and kissed her.

Then Kitty Sartorius entered, a marvellous
vision, with Belmont in her wake. Kitty glanced hesitatingly at
the massive and good-humoured Lionel.

"The fact is " said Kitty, and
paused.

"We are engaged," said Lionel. "You aren't
surprised?"

"Our warmest congratulations!" Cecil observed.
"No. We can't truthfully say that we are staggered. It is in
the secret nature of things that a leading lady must marry her
manager  a universal law that may not be transgressed."

"Moreover," said Eve later, in Cecil's private
ear, as they were separating for the night, "we might have
guessed much earlier. Theatrical managers don't go scattering
five-hundred pound bracelets all over the place merely for
business reasons."

"But he only scattered one, my dear," Cecil
murmured.

"Yes, well. That's what I mean."

(End.)

Original edition: Bradbury, Agnew Co., Ltd., Printers, London and
Tonbridge.